“…Do you know where the bus to California is?” he asks me.
His accent is American. His English is perfect. He sounds like he just stepped out of a movie.
The question is absurd. This is Cambodia. Even with my lousy knowledge of geography, I know there ain’t no busses to California here. He’s got to be a hustler, but his pitch is original, I got to give him that…
Flash back: June 2014.
Poipet. Cambodia. Hot. Humid. Dusty.
My $5 room is an Oasis. I’m writing, writing. Nothing else to do in Poipet.
I go out in the street to get some food.
On the way down the stairs, I pass the sign which says:
“No smoking please. No sex with children in room.”
(Top: kids hanging out in Poipet.)
On my way to the noodle place, this little guy sidles up to me. He looks around forty, maybe fifty. He’s got no shoes on, and pink sparkly nail polish. I peg him for a hustler, or a beggar.
“Hello” he says.
“Hi” I reply.
I don’t like touts and hustlers, but I also don’t like to be rude, so I usually answer the hundreds of ‘hellos’ I get every day on the street with a ‘hi’, or a wave, or something else non-committal.
“Do you know where the bus to California is?” he asks me.
His accent is American. His English is perfect. He sounds like he just stepped out of a movie.
The question is absurd. This is Cambodia. Even with my lousy knowledge of geography, I know there aint no busses to California here. He’s got to be a hustler, but his pitch is original, I got to give him that.
“You talking about California… in America?” I ask vaguely.
I’m totally non-plussed by this guy. His appearance and his voice don’t add up. It’s disconcerting.
“Yeah” he says.
I laugh.
I wonder what series of events created the life I’m talking to.
Was he someone’s boyfriend once? Did he maybe live in The United States. Was he used? Was he just unlucky in love?
Maybe this guy is the son, of the son, of a hustler. Maybe he was studying George Clooney movies, under the watchful eyes of his grandfather, when he was four years old, learning to speak like a rich man.
Perhaps this guys life is Idyllic. Perhaps the man in front of me is an international playboy, in a situation comedy, someone like Steve Martin in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the hen-pecked, gag-butt, offsider.
“I don’t think there’s any bus to California from here, mate” I tell him.
“The one you got off of” he says in a friendly tone.
“I hitchhiked here” I tell him.
“Oh, OK” he says. “You like Madonna? Phil Collins? The Beatles? Who’s your favourite? John or Paul?”
I figure he’s doing what short con men do. He’s trying to build trust, establish a relationship. But the voice. It’s too good.
This little man standing beside me makes me unbelievably nervous. I see a store front and mumble something about buying some lunch. Before I turn away he gives me his last ditch line.
“I can show you a nice place you can get whatever you want. Come with me, around the corner there.”
Something about the way he says “around the corner” rings bells in my brain stem. It’s not hard to picture David Lynch getting a big crush on this little dude and casting him in a movie.
I make a half hearted excuse, and go into the shop. The guy with the sparkly nail polish gives up on me and ambles off down the street.
(Above: the view from the roof of my hostel.)
After lunch I find a barber. My beard was really bugging me when I was eating my noodle soup.
I draw a little sketch for the barber to show him how I want my sideburns trimmed. I am very flattering to myself, but he gets the idea. I nearly got a mohawk from an over zealous barber in Morocco once, so I am a bit paranoid now.
Just after sundown, I head over to the street food market.
I sit at a place I ate at the other day, because they are really friendly, and the food is delicious. They only make sandwiches, but the bread is fresh, and the fillings are moist, and aromatic, and crunchy. The sandwiches are incredibly good value at US$2.00.
I am in the act of taking an enormous bite of sandwich, when I catch sight of the kid standing beside my table.
The kid is pretty, and brown, around eight or nine years old maybe. She is just standing there, with her hands held in front of her, making the shape of a pathetically small bowl.
I am embarrassed. I feel like I have been photographed with my gut hanging out. I don’t want to give the kid money, because I have heard so many stories about adults exploiting kids, making them beg on their behalf and squandering the money they collect.
I wave awkwardly at the sandwich makers, and indicate I would like to buy the kid a sandwich. They take a minute to grasp my meaning, but then they are all smiles.
By the time I turn back to my table, there are two kids in front of me with their hands out.
I upgrade my order to a foot-long, and ask the sandwich makers to please cut it in half for the kids to share. They comply, smilingly.
There are four kids standing in front of…
There are eight kids standing in front of me. I can see the dusky silhouettes of more children, running across the street from the opposite sidewalk, where their families are lounging on verandas and sipping beer.
Suddenly I have an anxious flicker, seeing myself in a zombie game, watching shadowy hordes converging on me in hungry, relentless, waves.
“Wait, wait” I stammer. “I am not going to buy sandwiches for everybody.”
I swallow the last quarter of my own sandwich like a foie gras goose – which is both humiliating and nauseating – and pay my bill.
The sandwich makers finish, and hand the sandwiches to the two kids. The kids grab their sandwiches, and scamper off without a backward glance. The ones who missed out drift away, trading insults and chatting.
I get my change from the sandwich makers. They smile at me broadly and make small bows. I thank them for the sandwiches. They point at the kids, and give me the thumbs up. I feel like a nice guy. Four dollars well spent.
Walking down the dark streets to my hostel, I see the guy with the californian accent chatting with a pair of backpackers in a doorway across the street. He sees me, and waves. His nail polish sparkles in the dull light from the hallway.
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